


A Night To Remember

by AntiGravitas



Series: The Nature of the Beast [2]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Animagus!Percival, Established Relationship, M/M, standalone fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:00:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27304504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AntiGravitas/pseuds/AntiGravitas
Summary: Apparently there's a Lethifold loose in a prestigious New York social club, and Percival's been called in to investigate. A perfect way for him to ignore his birthday, or it would be if Newt wasn't intent on celebrating it. Besides, surely a jaguar animagus is the perfect candidate to track down a creature as stealthy as a Lethifold?AKA a fantastic opportunity for a birthday meal with an unexpected side order of beast hunting.[Standalone fic]
Relationships: Original Percival Graves/Newt Scamander
Series: The Nature of the Beast [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1993507
Comments: 11
Kudos: 107





	A Night To Remember

**Author's Note:**

> You may have noticed the 123k fic that precedes this one. You definitely _don't_ need to have read that first. All you need to know is that Percival is a jaguar animagus and Newt, unsurprisingly, is his boyfriend. :]

“Early reports indicate that it could be a Lethifold.”

Percival Graves looks over the top of the report he’s holding and into the eyes of his second in command. They glitter with poorly suppressed amusement, and the Director bites back on the sigh that’s trying to escape his chest, refusing to give the other man the satisfaction of his outward irritation. 

“It was a poltergeist two days ago,” he says, managing an at least reasonable approximation of neutrality.

“Well, it could be a Lethifold now.” 

Ibrahim Ismail, Assistant Director of Magical Security for MACUSA and royal pain in Percival Graves’ ass can do a fantastic impression of earnestness when his mischievous nature calls for it. “In fact, initial indications suggest the possibility of a nest! Isn’t that absolutely remarkable, old man? An entire nest! In the club!”

“Ibrahim…”

In truth that _would_ be remarkable, considering the club in question is the Twenty-Twenty-One, that most prestigious magical club in the centre of New York, a far cry from the usual places one might expect to find a single Lethifold, let alone a nest of the damned things.

“I have two separate reports here, with full witness statements attached - good work, Alvarez - that state individuals, on different evenings no less, have been disturbed and subsequently pursued from their late evening meals in the Parlour by ‘shadowy entities’ that elicited feelings of ‘great dread’ and ‘sheer-’ actually, that’s rather crude, ‘sheer _expletive_ terror’ in the process.”

Percival leans his elbow on his desk and rubs at his forehead with his fingers. “Sheer what now?”

“Fucking,” Ibrahim enunciates precisely.

Briefly, Percival closes his eyes. “Right, of course.”

Turning the folder of reports around so that Graves can more easily see the artist’s impression of the aforementioned creature, Ibrahim holds them out beneath Percival’s nose for closer inspection. Giving in finally Percival deigns to look. He squints at the shapeless black mass drawn in charcoal and ink, ferocious in its complete lack of form and looking more like someone has smudged their art supplies over the page than any kind of serious composite sketch.

“Really? Who drew these?”

“Nottings, I believe,” Ibrahim replies with mock surprise.

“Morgana’s tits. Take them away, will you?” He waves the reports off with one hand before leaning back in his chair and drawing both palms down his face, groaning aloud. He’s exhausted. The official end of the Rupree case had been four days ago and yet, here he is, still sorting through paperwork, stamping and signing and explaining for really honestly the final time now exactly why it had all nearly gone to shit there at the end. And he just doesn’t have the patience for it any more. “I don’t suppose there’s any coffee left in the pot, is there?” he asks, almost plaintively. 

“There can be,” Ismail replies kindly, and sets the folder of reports down on Percival’s desk to go and take care of the matter. 

Percival watches his second in command fuss with the coffee pot he keeps warming away in the corner cabinet of his office, a necessary little luxury in place of a cauldron. Fifteen years and the man can only just be trusted not to absolutely ruin a decent pot simply by standing nearby and thinking too hard about touching it. Eventually Ismail returns, mug of hot coffee in hand and Percival accepts it gratefully.

“Listen,” Ibrahim says, settling himself back on the edge of Percival’s desk. “I know this is hardly our usual area of concern, and it’s all a bit wishy-washy, but we do owe the Club a certain amount of attention considering the favours they’ve done us over the years. It would be politic to sort this out for them, because even though nothing’s really happened yet, certain people are starting to take notice. And I’m sure the Club doesn’t want this kind of thing getting out to the wider public.”

Percival looks into the eyes of his second in command and sighs. The man is right, and he shakes his head in annoyed agreement at Ismail’s raised eyebrows. The Twenty-Twenty-One is not only a prestigious magical social club, it’s also a safe house, a discreet location for sensitive meetings, and a neutral territory where they can put powerful witches and wizards together to sort out their differences without the risk of burning half the city down in a fit of highly strung pureblood pique. “All right, all right,” he sighs. “I know. I’ll...do something.”

The smile that pulls at his second’s mouth is sympathetic, and he hesitates for a beat before drawing in a breath. “Four separate sightings now, two of which made the claim about shadowy entities. Unfortunately the boys and girls were entirely unable to find any trace of creatures after they went in - on _any_ occasion. We did think haunting at first, but the exorcists from Meridia’s team say there’s not a trace of phantasmic presence.”

“They’ve gotten Meridia involved?” Percival asks in disbelief, and Ismail shrugs, picking up his partially forgotten mug of tea.

“She’s a regular.”

The clock on the wall takes that opportunity to chime, informing them both that it’s nearly a half past eleven at night. Percival glances up at it in surprise and shakes his head. Somewhere along the way there was supposed to have been a point where he went home and ate dinner.

“Newt’s back tomorrow, isn’t he?” Ibrahim runs a fingertip thoughtfully around the rim of his mug, watching Percival out of the corner of his eye.

Graves nods. It’s been nearly two weeks since his partner, and here he pauses mentally for just a moment to savour the concept, since Newt took himself off on a trip up country. Another of his rehoming initiatives - this time to a sanctuary willing to take on the Mokes he’d acquired earlier in the year. 

“I’m sure Newt will have some input, considering,” the Assistant Director says, and Percival tilts his head to glare at his old friend.

“It’s not a damned Lethifold,” Percival replies flatly.

Ismail shrugs as though he simply couldn’t comment either way, and says, “Well, Newt will know.” 

Draining his coffee with a shake of his head, Graves sets the mug down and slaps the report he was reading closed. “That’s it, I’m calling it a night,” he declares.

Nodding in agreement Ismail does the same, pushing himself off the desk and to his feet. “Well then, I’ll leave you to it. I have a few potions to see finished before I pack up for the night.”

It’s not uncommon for either man to spend long hours at the office, although not all of it hard at work. Neither of them are married, and their respective offices have, over the years, become almost second homes to them. At least that is until six months ago when one Newton Scamander returned to America and inserted himself firmly into the Director’s life. Now Percival has more of a use for the echoing rooms of his empty townhouse, and a very good reason to be home at a reasonable time. At least when his wandering partner is resident in the city.

“Oh,” Ibrahim says, turning as though a thought has just occurred to him. “Doing anything for your birthday, old man? That’s tomorrow, isn’t it?”

Percival gives Ismail a frosty look that speaks volumes regarding the sudden flare of suspicion in his chest. “You know I don’t celebrate,” he says mildly.

Ismail nods in agreement, and Graves narrows his eyes. “Of course not, I just wondered. Miracles will never cease, as they say. Anyway, good night, Percy.” 

_“Good night,_ Ibrahim,” Graves replies, just about cordially, and scowls when the only reply is a chuckle poorly concealed by the depths of a tea mug.

*

  
  


The Graves family own a townhouse in the Upper East Side of New York, a symbol of their power, influence, and the wealth of accumulated centuries, and every time Newt comes back to it he wonders again why in the world Percival keeps the place. For twenty years he’s lived in the townhouse on his own, his older sister somewhere out in the country with her family, leaving the house of four storeys a shell of mostly echoing emptiness and closed-off rooms. Even now, with Newt a somewhat permanent resident they barely take up the ground floor and the level above between them.

Newt arrives back in New York mid-morning on the 31st of October and makes his way from the train station to the townhouse on foot. He enjoys the brisk autumn morning, smiling around himself at the people filling the streets, and surprised all over again by the sheer _size_ of everything. It’s really quite breath-taking and he knows his occasionally wide-eyed fascination is a source of endless amusement to Percival, along with a distinct shading of bafflement, but at the same time he really _does_ like New York. Strange for him, perhaps, but to Newt the place is an exotic change from the streets of London, as different a vista as the tallest mountain range or the widest plains. 

By midday Newt has changed out of his travelling clothes into something more relaxed and put the kettle on ready for a spot of lunch. Percival is due home around six, which means Newt expects him about seven because the man is simply impossible when it comes to prying him out of that damned office of his, but it will leave plenty of time for Newt to gently introduce him to the idea of a private birthday dinner at the club at eight. Newt’s not really one for fancy celebrations or expensive dinners out, but this will be the first year he and Percival have been together over the man’s birthday and Newt, well, Newt wants to show that he does pay attention. It’s _good_ to be appreciated, so they tell him, and Newt will do an awful lot to make sure that Percival Graves both knows and feels that he is appreciated. 

He thinks again of the Cheshire Cat grin Ibrahim had worn the day before Newt had departed on his trip, and feels a spike of concern that he’s made the wrong choice. It’s quite unlike Ibrahim Ismail to be so blatant with his mischief, but perhaps it’s just that Newt is so much more familiar with Percival’s oldest friend now after six months of exposure to him. Even so, when Ibrahim had casually let slip that the Director’s birthday is on All Hallows Eve, Newt’s ears had perked up. He understands from Ismail that Percival is shy about his birthday and refuses to acknowledge it, claiming a disdain for the idea that his birth date makes him somehow more in tune with the spirits. Something to that effect anyway, Newt admits he’d been a little confused on the matter. 

He pauses in the act of buttering some bread to bite at his lip. Surely a quiet meal and the little gift he’s had made won’t cause upset? Perhaps he ought to cancel and they can spell up a meal here instead, there’s still plenty of time for him to nip out and bring back a pair of steaks. Cooking them nicely will be more of a challenge but he’s no slouch in the kitchen really, just perhaps not worthy of being called _talented._ He’s still wavering over this when he hears the front door open, and blinking sets down the butter knife to investigate.

“Newt?”

“In the kitchen!”

Percival appears in the doorway, unwrapping his scarf and smiles when he sees Newt. “Hello, darling,” he says warmly, and Newt feels a shiver of pleasure go through him at the words. Had you told him six months ago he’d be standing in this man’s kitchen smiling like an idiot at being called ‘darling’ he’d have had some extremely dismissive, perhaps even rude, words for you. Now though he steps forward to meet the other man, accepting Percival’s embrace, and then his kiss.

“Mm, Percival, I wasn’t expecting you back till the evening!” Newt says when they break apart to look at one another.

For the briefest of moments Graves looks like he’s hesitating, and then he dips his head and draws in a breath. “Well, actually…”

It turns out Newt needn’t have worried about booking a table at the club tonight because there’s apparently already one waiting for them. And in the spirit of the season this one comes with something of a catch.

“A Lethifold?” he repeats, frowning.

“Yes, I know it’s ridiculous,” Percival sighs, pulling off his gloves. “But unfortunately I left the report in the office or I’d show you the artists impressions I was given.”

“In the Twenty-Twenty-One?”

Percival catches Newt’s tilted head expression of curiosity and nods, feeling like an utter fool. “I know, I know.”

“Well,” Newt says generously, “It can’t hurt to go and have a look, can it?”

At Percival’s sigh and look of exasperation, Newt laughs. “Come on, Percy. We can make a day of it, and who knows, maybe it takes a jaguar’s nose to sniff out such a stealthy beast, hm?”

“If you think I’m creeping around the club as jaguar again, Mr Scamander, I’m afraid you’re in for a disappointment.” 

Newt’s sly smile turns into full laughter at Percival’s expression, and then the auror steps into his space until he has Newt backed up against the countertop, at which point there’s really nothing else he can do but surrender.

  
  


*

  
  


“Why did that House Elf ask if you wanted to keep both tables, Newt?”

Newt, already peering beneath the nearest dining table straightens up abruptly and fails to give Percival anything remotely resembling an innocent look. To his relief one of the club’s smartly dressed House Elves returns at that moment and hands Graves a set of keys, successfully distracting him. 

“All right, apparently these will take us wherever we need to go,” Percival says, sorting through the assorted ring. 

“You know, I don’t really understand why the House Elves haven’t taken care of this already,” Newt says quietly. “I mean, if it _is_ a ghost, they’re more than capable of dismissing it themselves.”

“Well,” Percival replies, sighing. “Apparently not. We’ve already had the exorcists in and they say it’s not a haunting. Besides, I thought you were taken with the whole Lethifold idea.”

“I wouldn’t exactly say _taken with,”_ Newt says, looking around the dining room. “More like I don’t think we should dismiss any possibilities really. Sometimes you just never know.”

“Yes, well,” Graves mutters. “Let’s get on with it then.”

The Twenty-Twenty-One, so-called because it takes up the entirety of the twentieth and twenty-first floors of the modern skyscraper that houses it, is an alumni club for Ilvermorny graduates. The first time he’d been brought here by Percival Newt had been more than a little in awe of the place. Its meeting halls and smoking rooms are bound together by what feels like miles of winding corridors and staircases, some of which seem to climb beyond the anticipated two floors to unknown heights and depths. He’s long since learned to stick to the main routes when he wants to visit the private library or the casual dining room they call the Parlour. Mostly he doesn’t come here, but Percival by dint of his alumni status and rank, as well as Ismail, British-born and Hogwarts educated, but who seems to go wherever he pleases, are both members and they’ve brought him along with them on occasion. To Newt the place still reeks unbearably of The Institution, along with all the power and privileges that come with that - but from listening to Percival talk he knows the place gets used as an informal and strictly neutral territory for all sorts of issues. 

They start on the twentieth floor, wandering slowly through the meeting rooms, giving Newt chance to sweep the place for any indication of unusual beast activity. They have to take care not to interrupt the few private meetings going on, but most people seem happy and eager enough to engage them on what they’re up to, and of course Percival knows _everyone._ Newt uses Percival as a distraction on those occasions, letting the other man deftly field any questions aimed his way with claims that Newt’s on the clock working for MACUSA, and that makes Newt twitch just a little bit even if it _is_ technically true because it still fundamentally rankles to be back in the old game. Still, if there really are Lethifolds in this club then he’s going to be fascinated to find them, and someone really ought to before things get out of hand.

By the time they reach the tiny private smoking rooms of the twenty-first floor Newt is drawing a resounding blank on any kind of creature presence at all. Not one to give up he makes his way through each room, checking carefully for any clues, Percival trailing along behind him, or stepping ahead to unlock doors as they go.

“So, why _did_ you book a table here?” Percival asks, and Newt winces because the man has waited until he’s gotten him trapped in a small closet with no options for escape before he’s pounced.

Shutting the lid on a storage chest that seems to contain mostly spare curtains, Newt sighs. “Well, I just...oh please don’t be angry, I know it’s your birthday and I wanted to take you out for a nice meal, and I thought you’d not like to go out somewhere fancy or it’d be too obvious, and I wasn’t trying to make a big event of it, Percival. So I thought just something quiet and good where neither of us had to cook…”

Percival is leaning in the doorway of the storage closet, arms folded and a strange look on his face. For the life of him Newt can’t tell if he’s irritated or surprised by Newt’s confession, and he squints at him, trying to work out how much trouble he’s in. “I’m sorry, I know you don’t like a fuss made of it, but I just thought- you know, it’s...it’s our first year together, and, well. I thought we might, _you_ might, oh I don’t know! I’m sorry.”

“Newt…” Percival says, shaking his head. “I’m not _angry,_ I’m just a little surprised I suppose. I haven’t celebrated my birthday in years, it’s just not something I think about. Why on earth would you think I’d be angry?”

 _Oh,_ Newt thinks. He fiddles briefly with his wand, rolling it between his fingertips as he wonders if he should just dump Ismail firmly in hot water for making an idiot of him. The decision is taken from him when Percival straightens with a sigh and a knowing look.

“You should know by now not to pay so much attention to Ibrahim,” he says.

“I don’t think _that’s_ a good idea,” Newt replies, thinking of the man’s not insignificant rank and wicked sense of humour. “But he did say you’re uhm, I don’t know, a little...sensitive?” 

All of a sudden it occurs to Newt that any sensitivity might be an _age-related_ sensitivity, and he feels his ears start to burn. Six months together is apparently still not enough for him to feel like he can’t make a fool of himself in front of this man. But Percival simply shakes his head and raises his eyebrows. He’s not looking at Newt though, he’s sighing down at the floor.

“It was the damned Press actually, years back. They ran a piece on me when I first made Director, dissecting my history, my personality, and doing the usual auguries. They realised that my birthday is the 31st of October and they ran wild with it. If you’d believed half of what you’d read about me at the time I’d have been equal parts master necromancer, spirit shaman, and touched by the hand of Death herself! It was absolutely outrageous, and although I admit it didn’t do my reputation all that much damage it became unbelievably tiresome. The damned fools went on and on about it.”

Newt winces. He’s familiar enough with the sharp claws of the Press and all the trouble their attention brings with it. “Ah,” he says quietly. “I didn’t mean to-”

“No, Newt, don’t be ridiculous,” Percival says, cutting him off. “It was years ago, and although they kept at it for about ten years they eventually let it drop. By that point ignoring the whole damned day had become a bit of a tradition unto itself for me, and because everyone was under the impression I was some kind of merciless dark master of death no-one ever dared question it.”

Something else occurs to Newt then. “And all the while there was a far more juicy story hidden beneath the surface.”

Percival raises his eyebrows in query, and Newt offers him a twist of a smile. “Mr animagus, sir,” he says, and his smile slips wider as Graves rolls his eyes.

“Yes, well. Merlin forbid they ever latch on to that one.”

Newt grins. Even after the adventure of half a year ago it’s still only himself and a handful of Percival’s inner circle that know about the Director’s ability. It’s a secret that’s decades old, and one that Newt feels quite privileged to share, although the getting to this point had been somewhat painful. “All right, well, talking of that, perhaps you’d like to put nose to the ground and see if you can scent anything?”

Leaning back out of the doorway Percival glances around and then, seeing no-one, gives a small shrug. He drops into his animagus form with the fluidity of long experience and all of a sudden the small closet is part filled with the most enormous black jaguar. Newt’s grin fades to a smile, and he reaches out to touch just the fingertips of his hand to the top of that glossy black head. Graves tilts his head up and mock bites at Newt’s fingers, before putting his nose to the ground.

“All right, all right,” Newt laughs. “But your fur is so soft!”

He can almost hear the grumbled _Scamander…_ and with a laugh he steps aside and out into the corridor to keep watch. 

In all the time they’ve been together Percival has never been able to fully articulate to Newt quite how he sees the world in his animagus form. Being a jaguar brings with it difficulties in a city where he’s trying to keep his ability a secret, but it also lends him a different perspective on the world that has proven useful on more than one occasion. He presses his nose to the carpet now, breathing in the interlayered scents of dust and polish, humans and House Elf. Then he presses outwards with his magical senses in the ways only a jaguar can, and tries to read the building. Ultimately, he gets much the same information back as he does in his human form - the steady thrum of the wards and obscurement charms that encase these two floors, the singing notes of the various extension charms that allow the corridors to twist and writhe in such unlikely ways over each other, and the fizz and whip of House Elf apparition. 

Lifting his nose he reads the weave of scents on the air, and then with a quick and silent tread follows them out into the corridors, Newt pathfinding ahead to make sure the way is clear. Scent is an intricate detailing of the world that Percival simply lacks the vocabulary to put into words, full of colour and texture that only make sense to a jaguar mind. He picks the layers apart, following the sharp trails of human perfume, the scent lifted above the miasma of polish that permeates the place. He can smell Newt, or rather the faintest scent of Newt’s sweat, undetectable to the human nose and entirely natural, as well as the tang of the mustard from lunch that still clings to his fingers, hands cleaned or not. 

They proceed in this way, careful to keep to the quietest corridors and out of sight, for another hour, until finally there’s nowhere left to look. Percival returns to his human form in time to catch the look in Newt’s eye and has to hide his own smile. He knows how much Newt enjoys watching him express his power, and for all that the man is quiet on the subject Percival is well aware of the thrill he apparently gets from claiming a powerful wizard as his partner. Newt’s a strange one when it comes to admitting what he likes, and Percival knows not to push him lest he retreat completely into mortified silence, but it doesn’t stop the Director from casually flexing the strength of his magic in front of him and watching the man’s eyes go glassy and fascinated. 

Smirking privately to himself, Percival pulls the ring of keys from his pocket. “One last place then.”

“Hm?” Newt tilts his head in query.

“The cellars.”

Newt just blinks. “But- oh, I see?”

The cellars of the Twenty-Twenty-One are accessed via a large wooden door in the kitchens on the twentieth floor. Newt’s never seen the kitchens before and he stares around at the gleaming chrome and steel appliances with outright surprise. It seems no matter where you go in America they have only the newest of gadgets, quite at odds with their strict rules regarding the separation of magical folk and muggles. There’s another of the smartly dressed House Elves present to show them the correct door, wiping his hands on a dishrag as he does so.

Percival and Newt stand together at the top of the winding staircase and peer down into the darkness. 

“Well if ever there was a place a Lethifold might lurk I’m certain I’m looking at it right now,” Percival says grimly.

Newt raises his eyebrows. “Not afraid of the dark, are you, Percival?”

Graves narrows his eyes at him. “You first, Mr Scamander. I believe you’re the expert here.”

“I do hope you can cast a Patronus,” Newt tells him cheerfully, already heading down the twisting staircase. “That’s the only way to drive off a Lethifold, you know!”

“Yes,” Graves replies, scowling. “I’m well aware.”

Despite its forbidding appearance, the cellar turns out to be devoid of life, Lethifold or otherwise, and filled instead with only stacks of boxes and chests and eerily humming freezing cabinets that Newt looks at with great interest until Percival draws him away. 

“So that’s it. Absolutely nothing, as expected,” The Director says, shaking his head in disgust. 

“Well, we still don’t know for sure,” Newt replies, holstering his wand and allowing himself to be pulled away from the first inklings of a plan with regards to a portable freezer installation of his own. “Unfortunately we don’t know a great deal about Lethifolds, owing to their simply terrifying success rate. But it is thought that they do only come out at night, which would coincide with the timings of the reported attacks.”

“Wonderful,” Percival growls. “Well, at least we already have a table booked for us tonight so we’ll get the chance to experience whatever the hell is going on in this place first hand. You know they’re going to clear the entire Parlour just for us?”

Newt smiles at the disgust in the auror’s voice, amused by the impatience of him and the disdain for a good mystery. Perhaps it’s the time of year making him so grumpy, he thinks to himself and then has to hide his smile from Percival’s penetrating eyes. 

“Well,” Newt says. “That will be the height of private dining. Very... _prestigious_.” 

Percival snorts and puts a hand out to wave Newt back up the staircase ahead of him. “Yes, I’m sure. Well, we’ve got another two hours before dinner. Could I perhaps tempt you with a drink upstairs, Newt?”

Newt nods happily, pleased with the idea. “And a game of cards?”

“Whatever your pleasure, Mr Scamander,” Percival says, waving the lanterns off behind them as they leave. It’s not until they’re back in the kitchens with the door closed firmly behind them that he holsters his wand again, and is quietly pleased to see that Newt doesn’t notice. 

  
  


*

  
  


The Parlour is a large corner room on the twentieth floor, two walls of which are filled with floor to ceiling windows that allow for magnificent views out across the night time city. Thirty or so cloth-draped tables set with candles and silverware are dotted around the room, and the one at which Newt and Percival sit is in the very corner between two windows and so commands perfect unbroken views out over the glowing cityscape. 

It’s strange to have the entire dining room to themselves, normally at this time of night on a Saturday the place would be packed out with witches and wizards and their associated familiars, dining either alone or in groups, but tonight diners have been moved to the formal dining room upstairs to allow Graves and Newt to conduct their investigation alone. After all, every attack so far has occurred in this particular dining room. 

“Well, this will definitely draw them in if they’re hungry,” Percival had said as they’d settled themselves in to eat, and Newt had snorted laughter in reply.

Just before dinner had been served they’d made a final investigation of the Parlour, Newt with his wand and Percival once more in jaguar form, but even between them they’d not been able to turn up anything of interest except a lost knut and a discarded breadstick. Now Newt settles back in his chair, watching Percival watch the glitter of the city lights below. The table lies empty before them, the finished dishes already whisked away by one of the House Elves, and now the two of them sit back, glasses of wine in hand to wait for something to happen. Newt smiles to himself. It’s been only two weeks he’s been away and in that time, as busy as he had been, there had nonetheless been quiet moments while travelling where his mind had drifted back to New York and the man sitting across from him.

He allows his eyes to drift across the other man’s features and down his neck to his neatly pressed clothes, not a hair out of place as always. Newt had dressed himself in his smartest suit for this investigation, well aware that they’d not be returning home to change before dining, and so he feels- actually no, he _doesn’t_ feel particularly uncomfortable, nor out of place. Not like he once would have. Apparently six months in the company of this man and his admittedly limited social circle have provided Newt with a newfound ease with formal occasions, or at least the get-up he has to wear to them. It hadn’t hurt that Percival had insisted on taking him to his own tailor for “clothing suitable to his role as consultant to MACUSA.” And although Newt had insisted on paying his own way, actually somewhat affronted by Percival’s offer, the price tag had made his eyes water. Still, he’d sucked it up gamely, well aware that his new partner operates on an entirely different level of society than he normally does, one which unfortunately requires a handsomely pressed suit at all times.

There is one benefit to them having the entire Parlour to themselves tonight, and that is that it makes for a wonderfully private setting to celebrate a birthday. Setting down his wine glass Newt reaches into his inner jacket pocket and draws out a small ribbon-wrapped box. 

“So, uhm. This is for you,” he says, pushing it across the table with the tips of his fingers. He can feel a blush starting on his cheeks, and annoyed with himself he dips his chin and hides behind his fringe. It’s an old habit he’s never quite managed to get past, and the fact that from time to time he still acts like a nervous teenager around this man is simply infuriating. But he can’t help it! Percival Graves’ opinion is very important to Newt, and despite the man’s assurances from earlier he’s still feeling a little insecure about this whole idea. Perhaps he ought to have let the whole birthday thing slide, and quite frankly he’s regretting his choice of gift too. What in Merlin’s name had he been thinking? He waits in regretful silence as Percival reaches out and picks up the small box, before carefully opening it up.

“These are remarkable, Newt. What are they made from?”

Newt glances up to find Percival lifting the gift cufflinks in his hand, holding them up to allow the candlelight to play over their silvery-blue surfaces. His expression is one of fascination, and perhaps even delight, and Newt feels a tension go out of him suddenly.

“Ah, they’re Swedish Short-Snout scales. Dragon scales. I uhm, I had them cut and polished up, and well, set, as you can see.”

“Beautiful,” Percival murmurs.

“They’re enchanted too,” Newt continues shyly. “Just a little.”

“Yes, I can tell that,” Percival says with interest, and Newt can see him turning the cufflinks in his fingers, playing his senses over them as he examines the magic. 

“A shielding charm?”

Newt dips his head and shakes it as Percival looks up at him. “Almost. An elemental resistance charm. Well, more of a cantrip really. For fire and for ice. I thought, well. Considering some of the fixes you get into in your line of work. You’re almost as bad as me, Percival.”

Graves laughs, and there’s genuine humour and fondness in it. Newt feels a flush of warmth go through him at the sound, relief that the gift hasn’t been found wanting, but also satisfaction at the look in the other man’s eye - he seems honestly charmed by the gift. 

“Thank you, Newt, they’re fantastic.” 

Now Newt’s blush is from embarrassment of a different source, one far more satisfactory than what he’d felt previously. He watches as Percival deftly removes the cufflinks he’s currently wearing and affixes the new ones in their place, smiling at how they catch the light. 

After that they sit and pass the time talking of Newt’s recent trip north, of his successful rehoming of the Mokes at a secret sanctuary that intends to one day establish an educational facility, the only reason Newt would ever consider allowing a non-native species such as a Moke be kept here in captivity. It’s as the clock is ticking towards eleven pm and Newt is outlining his own future plans for similar ventures that he spots movement over Percival’s shoulder. Graves must see the flicker in his expression for he’s already reaching for his wand even before Newt can change subject.

“Goodness me,” Newt says softly. “That really does look like a Lethifold.”

It looks in fact like _three_ Lethifolds, each one of them sliding like strange air-borne water creatures over the surfaces of the tables and across the room towards them. Percival is on his feet in an instant, turning to face the threat with Newt behind him a moment later. 

“Patronus,” Newt recommends, still watching the oncoming creatures with fascination.

With a flick of his wrist Percival casts the charm, and from the tip of his wand a burst of silvery light emerges that coalesces almost immediately into a muscular feline form.

“Wampus Cat!” Newt says with delight, pressing his fingertips to the small of Percival’s back.

“Will you _please_ stay behind me, Newt,” Percival grits out, flicking his wand and directing the shimmering magical beast in the direction of the oncoming Lethifolds. He puts a hand out and grabs Newt’s arm hard, pushing the magizoologist behind him with unforgiving strength.

The glimmering patronus heads with feline grace and purposeful bounds towards the threat, leaping at them with claws outstretched. With a silent roar it passes ineffectually through the oncoming Lethifolds, landing in a cloud of magical effervescence between the tables beyond where it turns to look back at them in confusion. Caught completely by surprise, Percival’s concentration wavers, and suddenly the patronus flickers out in a shimmer of silvery light.

“Ah...Newt?” Percival says, backing up, his hand still wrapped tightly around Newt’s forearm as he presses the magizoologist back behind him.

“Oh, that’s highly unusual,” Newt admits with a frown, watching the shadowy Lethifolds flutter closer. 

“Newt…”

The tightness of Percival’s grip is painful now, and Newt can hear a tremor of something that could almost be called fear in the auror’s voice. “Yes,” he replies finally. “We should probably run now.” 

They do. Their flight takes them between the tables and out into the corridor beyond, Percival turning to grab Newt almost by the scruff of the neck to prevent the magizoologist from spending too much time looking back over his shoulder. They flee in the direction of one of the meeting rooms at the end of the corridor, one that Percival, in the lead, knows will be empty at this hour. Behind them the Lethifolds undulate out of the Parlour, looking like nothing more than floating sheets, albeit midnight black and bringing with them a dread that makes the skin on the back of the neck prickle. As they pass by the lamps along the wall sputter and extinguish, their bulbs snapping out with a series of sudden pops. 

“Through here!” Percival declares, dragging Newt with him into the meeting room. They cross it at a run, skirting the huge central oak table and slamming through the doors on the opposite side, out into the service corridor beyond. From there Percival leads them down a passage Newt just about recognises from their scouting around earlier, and then into what looks like an abandoned cloakroom. To Newt’s relief he can see a door on the far side of the stuffy little room that he fervently hopes leads out to an escape route. 

Percival slams the door closed behind them and leans against the wood, breathing hard, his face pale. Newt, lost in excited thought glances his way and then double-takes. “Percy,” he says, taking a step towards the auror in concern. “Are you quite all right?”

“I hate those damned things,” Percival growls. “They absolutely make my flesh crawl!”

That last is uttered with such vehemence that Newt stares at him with astonishment. Something that’s been ticking over in the back of his mind starts to organise itself into an almost recognisable pattern. “When were you last here? I mean, before we came today?”

Percival looks at him uncomprehendingly for a second, then shakes his head when Newt nods in encouragement. “Ah, last...last week. I came in as part of the initial investigation to help smooth things over.”

“Hm,” Newt says. 

“Newt?”

The magizoologist hesitates for just a moment, trying to think of a polite way of asking what he needs to. At Percival’s unsettled expression, he reaches out and puts a soothing palm to the other man’s cheek, then curls his fingers to brush them down his jaw. “Percy, are you really so afraid of Lethifolds?”

A little shame-faced, Graves shrugs. The expression is so unusual on him that Newt almost shakes his head at the sight. “I, well I read a book about one of them when I was too damned young to be reading that kind of thing, and it scared the absolute hell out of me. Had nightmares one was coming for me for months after that! I suppose, well, I suppose that fear never really left me.”

“Hm,” is again Newt’s only reply.

At that moment the temperature in the room drops distinctly and Newt looks up and around as Percival pushes himself sharply away from the door. 

“They’re here,” Graves says grimly. 

“Right then, come on,” Newt says, taking him by the wrist and pulling him towards the door at the opposite end of the little cloakroom. “I hope this goes somewhere useful.”

Bursting out through that door puts them in a corridor that Newt suddenly realises he recognises. “This way!” he cries, pulling on Percival’s sleeve. “There’s duelling halls down here, no-one will be in them at this time of night!”

They run together, hand in hand, Newt the one now leading Percival along behind him. He follows the corridor in the direction he knows the duelling halls lie, and even as he does so he realises that they’ve been running for too long. They should have seen the carved wooden arrow that announces the halls long before now. With a knowing sigh Newt presses on. He can feel Percival looking back over his shoulder, wand raised in his free hand, and he tightens his grip on the auror’s fingers, refusing to let him slow and do something foolish. Even so, when Newt dodges right and through a pair of heavy double doors that he thinks should lead to the first of the duelling halls, all of a sudden Percival’s hand slips from his and before Newt can do anything to prevent it the doors slam closed between them, separating the pair of them. 

“Oh come on,” Newt whispers and takes a few steps backwards, glaring at the now securely sealed doors. There’s absolute silence coming from the other side, which makes no sense whatsoever considering Percival will be just on the other side, and Lethifolds or not, Newt can’t imagine the Director permitting a pair of recalcitrant doors to stand between the pair of them.

When he finally turns to look around, Newt has to raise his eyebrows. He knows this room. He knows it from the bright white light and the bare walls and the chlorine scent of the dark liquid lapping in the pool that fills most of it. MACUSA’s Death Cell, their execution chamber, and seated in the ducking chair in the centre of the deadly pool is Percival. 

“Newt!” the auror cries, and the note of panic in his voice is so _real_ it goes straight through Newt and makes him shiver. Around the base of the chair the dark liquid has begun to swirl, but this time there are no fond memories to take its victim’s mind off of his impending doom, and Newt watches in silence as Percival struggles against his bonds, frantic now as the potion rises up around him. 

“Newt!”

The chair begins to sink, that evil potion rising up around Percival’s legs and Newt closes his eyes, not wanting to see it. He pushes his breathing into something resembling normalcy, even as he hears Percival shouting for him, but it’s fine, this is absolutely not a problem he thinks. By the time the room falls silent, Newt has his breathing under control and he’s only shaking just the smallest amount from leftover reaction. When he opens his eyes he sees the dark pool, and the chair, and this time it’s Leta sat in it, her beautiful features twisted into a look of such horror that Newt shivers anew. _Enough,_ he tells himself gently. _This isn’t Leta._

And then Leta becomes Tina, struggling and afraid, and Newt is left shaking his head, when all of a sudden the room is filled with a great roaring and the doors behind him burst open so hard they slam against the walls either side in a shower of dislodged plaster. All of a sudden Percival is next to him, furious and full of an energy born of rage. He sees Newt, and then he sees Tina over Newt’s shoulder, but by that time Newt has had chance to turn and capture him round the waist, preventing him from doing anything unnecessary. 

Smiling, Newt leans his weight against the auror’s onward rush and pushes him back, one arm tight around his waist, the other wrapped in the folds of his jacket to keep him in check. “It’s all right, Percival,” he says. “That’s not Tina. It’s all right! Really, we’re quite safe.”

Behind him he hears Tina’s crying fade away and suddenly the light changes, and Newt knows the scene has changed with it. His arm still pressed against Percival’s chest he turns to look over his shoulder and then laughs at what he sees. Sat in the middle of the dim room, spot lit from above, there’s an old Ministry desk and a name plate sat on one end with his name etched into it.

“Goodness,” Newt chuckles. “That was a long time ago. I mean, you’re not wrong, but you were closer the first time.”

“Newt,” Percival gasps. “What the hell is going on?”

Letting go of the other man, Newt turns fully to face the menace of the Ministry desk and draws his wand. “You know how to cast a _Riddikulus_ charm? I assume they teach that at Ilvermorny. Yes, well, I’m going to do that, and then you’re going to cast a binding hex, and then I’m going to find a _box.”_

Without waiting for a reply, Newt casts his charm directly into the centre of the scene before them. Immediately the room explodes into a howling storm of rushing wind, but the light changes too, the scene around them dissolving, and suddenly they’re back in the Parlour, the furious storm ripping tablecloths off the tables and sending both tables and chairs crashing into each other in a swirling vortex of poltergeist-like activity. A soup tureen spins past Newt’s face, almost clipping his ear, and he ducks, laughing. With a gleeful flick of his wand he casts the _Riddikulus_ charm again, and all at once the centre of the magical storm resolves into a whirlwind of miasmic shadow that hovers spinning around itself in the middle of the room.

“Is that a goddamned _Boggart?”_ Percival yells above the ruckus, and even with the noise the thing is making the outrage in his tone is absolutely clear.

“It is!” Newt replies, laughing in delight, impressed that the thing is resisting even his second attempt at the banishing charm. “A Queen I think! Now hurry up and bind it, will you?”

With a furious grimace Percival casts. His binding hex is something somewhere between a silvery bubble and a flicker of magical rope that whips around the shrieking Boggart, enclosing it within its grasp and freeing Newt up to find his box. Leaving Percival poised with his wand raised to keep the binding in place, Newt goes scrambling to the side of the room, climbing over upturned furniture to reach the sideboards where he begins opening doors in search of a suitable container. Eventually he pulls out something that will work, and then it’s just a few quick leaps back to the centre of the room where he places the container directly beneath the whirling form of the Boggart.

“Drop it in!” he calls cheerfully to Percival, who complies with a grimace.

The Boggart goes into the box with remarkably little resistance, almost all of its power now drained away by the two men’s understanding of its true nature, and as soon as he’s able Newt slams the lid on behind it and locks it with a simple locking charm.

For a long moment the two men stare at the locked cake tin rattling angrily in place on the floor, until with one final clatter it falls still and silent. Newt sits back on his heels, and slowly Percival lowers his wand, his breathing hard and loud in the otherwise quiet of the room. All around them the wreckage of the dining room begins to settle, tables and chairs upturned and blown to the edges of the space, the whole scene jumping wildly beneath the swinging of the overhead chandeliers. Something, somewhere in the mess tumbles to the floor, striking a number of surfaces before it finally hits the ground and shatters in a tinkle of expensive-sounding crystal.

“A _Boggart,”_ Percival says in disbelief. His hair is in disarray, and he looks absolutely peeved in the way only the most embarrassingly tricked can. 

“A _Queen_ Boggart,” Newt corrects him. “I’ve never met one before! They’re a bit of a myth actually, or well, they were thought to be. They’re actually two or three Boggarts joined together to form one more powerful creature. But ultimately, as you saw, they’re still susceptible to the same old Boggart-Banishing charm.”

Percival stares at him, shaking his head in disbelief. “You have soup all over your jacket,” he points out eventually.

“Do I?” Newt asks in alarm. “Oh _bugger._ I just bought this one!”

Percival leaves him to paw at his jacket, looking around at the destruction with incredulity. There’s an excited chatter of voices coming from the corridor outside, the other club members drawn by the ruckus. A House Elf pokes her face around the frame of the open doorway and shakes her head sadly at the mess that greets her eyes. With a long-suffering sigh, Percival runs a hand through his hair to tame it, and then goes over to greet her.

  
  


*

  
  


By the time they return to Percival’s house it’s almost one in the morning. Explanations at the club had been taken on board with a truly remarkable degree of equanimity, particularly considering how much damage the Queen Boggart had wrought before it was locked up. The cake box is now out in the back garden waiting for Newt to go out and open it come morning, an action which the magizoologist has assured Percival will lead to the full banishment of the creature. Percival, who, despite being quite worn out by the whole escapade, doesn’t want a Queen Boggart creeping into his house and taking up residence in the night, has already extracted from Newt the most solemn of oaths that the thing will be secure out there. And if it’s not then it’s all going to be Newt’s problem. _All_ of it.

Now Newt is sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of cocoa in hand as Percival digs through the drinks cabinet for bourbon to add to his own mug. The magizoologist is still giggling to himself over the whole matter, as he picks at the remains of a fruit cake the House Elves had sent them away with as a small token of thanks. In fact the parting gift had come about when Newt had found the crushed remnants of what should have been their dessert under a chair and made such an inadvertent sound of disappointment that Percival had actually looked over to check on him. 

“That’ll do,” Percival says, finally selecting a bottle. Pouring a measure into his mug he offers it up to Newt who accepts with not even a moment’s hesitation. In his experience what Percival Graves considers a bourbon of ‘sufficient’ quality to be poured into hot cocoa will in fact be better than anything Newt might have picked out at the best of times. 

“What a birthday,” Newt says, laughing softly. “All I wanted was to take you out for a nice, quiet dinner, and what we got was quite the adventure. Sorry about that.”

Percival leans back in his chair, and eyes Newt with a raised eyebrow. “Not your fault, unless you planted the damned thing in there in the first place.”

“Not me! Not this time,” Newt replies with a grin. “But I do wonder how it ended up in the club.”

Percival grimaces and hums an agreement. “Yes, that is definitely going to be a matter for investigation - starting tomorrow.”

“Oh!” Newt exclaims, and suddenly there’s a wicked gleam in his eye. “I forget, men of your age need to get to bed early.”

 _“You,”_ Percival says, lifting a finger from the handle of his mug to point it in Newt’s direction. “Will retract that statement immediately, Newt Scamander.”

“I’m not sure I shall, Mr Graves,” Newt replies cheekily, and then has only just enough time to set his cocoa down safely before Percival is on his feet and round the table reaching for him. 

They make it upstairs to the bedroom, cocoa quite forgotten, and clothing already half-shed very quickly after that. The glow of the streetlamp outside falls in a rectangle of light across the floor, and by its light they strip one another of the rest of their clothing, fingers fumbling and eager, and mouths hot against each other’s skin. It’s the pent-up energy of two weeks apart, and the heat of it takes them both somewhat by surprise. 

Newt pulls Percival down onto the bed with him, squirming happily beneath the other man’s weight as Percival rearranges them both to his liking, Newt’s fingers tickling at his sides and busy across the sensitive edges of his belly. He ends the torment with a bite to the other man’s throat that makes Newt yelp and then laugh, and then groan at the delicious pressure, at which point Percival breaks off to trail kisses down his shoulders, his chest, and then lower, until Newt’s fingers pluck at his hair impatiently. Eventually, smirking and satisfied with Newt’s whimpering, he ducks his head and takes him in his mouth, teasing and coaxing, working him with his tongue until finally Newt presses upwards with a shout only barely smothered behind his clenched fist. Percival holds him through the white-hot throes of release, fingers tight on the other man’s hips until Newt’s breathing loses its harsh gasping and he returns to coherency. 

Composure restored, he allows Newt to encourage him over onto his back, pulling the other man into his chest as he settles against him, breathing out a sigh of anticipation when he feels Newt’s fingers tight around his cock. No matter quite how he might protest, he really doesn’t have Newt’s youthful energy for sex these years, and it takes him longer than it once would have to find his release. But Newt is clever with his fingers and knows Percival all too well by now, and he strokes and encourages in all the rhythms he knows make his partner’s breath hitch and his eyes go glazed, until Percival is shuddering in his grip, gasping Newt’s name into the other man’s neck. He comes with a bitten-off moan, pressing his forehead hard into the crook of Newt’s shoulder as Newt holds him tight and whispers his approval in Percival’s ear. 

Sated for now, they lie on the crumpled bedsheets, Newt flicking his wand across their bodies in lazy clean-up spells, Percival still nuzzled in against his neck. Setting his wand down on the bedside table Newt lets his arm fall back across the bed, pulling Percival in tight against him with the other. He draws in a long breath and when he releases it it’s as though he’s letting go of the tension of months. Satisfied, he stretches, curling his toes in bliss, and amused, Percival huffs laughter against his skin.

“Happy birthday, Percy,” Newt murmurs. “If nothing else this one’s going to be one to remember.”

Graves snorts, his breath puffing across Newt’s neck and making him smile up at the ceiling in return. Silence falls between them then, warm and sleepy in the lazy afterglow of physical release, the only noise the distant sound of the streets outside as the city that never sleeps goes on about its business.

“See,” Percival mutters suddenly. “I knew it wasn’t a goddamned Lethifold. It’s _never_ a Lethifold.”

Startled into laughter, Newt tries to stop himself from shaking too hard with mirth and dislodging the other man, but by the time he gets his grinning back under control Percival is already sound asleep. Smiling to himself, Newt tucks his chin into the softness of Percival’s hair and lets himself drift off in the warmth and security of his arms.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween! I'm convinced that Oct 31st is Percival's birthday, and my proof is that he's a Scorpio judging by the scorpion collar pins he wears, because horoscopes are all the rage in wizarding circles. ;]


End file.
